I’m twisting myself into an ampersand in yoga using an uninspiring metal folding chair as a prop and think I’m doing pretty well until the soft-spoken instructor places a hand on my arm and says, “You might actually want to twist the other way,” which explains why I’m facing the entire class.
By the next move, I’m twisting the other way, until he comes back and smiles. “How did you manage to get twisted around again?” he says.
“I have no idea,” I say, making some effort to right myself, but still unclear on exactly how to do that.
After class, I’m rolling up my map and tossing my blocks in the bin all relaxed despite my preference for doing things backwards, when he says, grinning, “You have quite a case of yoga dyslexia.”
I like this, because yoga teachers usually aren’t sarcastic, but I must look alarmed, because he says, “It’s OK,” nodding toward another yogi. “That guy has it too.”